The Carrier
by Mechanism
Summary: Billy wakes up in his house, moderately and suspiciously alive. AU
1. START

Billy isn't sure where he is when he wakes up, or why it is that he's waking up at all. By all accounts he shouldn't be. He died. Yes, despite his sureness that he is dead, that his cold, still heart isn't beating, that his lungs are coiled in on themselves like dried fruit, his lips part, his eyelids flutter, his fingers flex. His joints are coming awake again, moving and creaking like old machinery, his thoughts slowly trickling back to him, first numb and stupid, and then increasingly worried and complex.

His eyes open, but he cannot see, not yet. He feels cold night air on his eyeballs, the crease of skin on skin where his eyelids double, but sees nothing. His lips part like a fish, and he slowly takes in a breath. He feels his lungs cracking open, painfully if he does it too fast, but then his body seems to dampen, once dry like a boneyard and now filled with something, something alive. The air tastes sweet at first, but as his range of taste increases he realizes it is a rotten sweetness, like spoiled fruit. His tongue, spongy and thick, hits the roof of his mouth and threatens to choke him, before he gains control of it and moves it away.

His fingers curl. Then his elbows, then his legs, and then his shoulders can roll, slow and grinding like stones. He's dead; or, at least, he _should_ be.

His vision is blotchy. At first he sees only in shades of red and green, with no contrast, just splotches of blurry color which vaguely denote his environment. It's not quite enough, and his brain isn't yet quick enough to really _see_ it. His skin prickles with new life. He feels all his human sweat and dirt and moisture, suddenly, and it's sort of gross to come back to, but also oddly invigorating.

He blinks, feels his eyelashes brush against his cheek, tastes his lips; chapped, filmy, disgusting, wonderful. He hears his back snap when he arches it, feels each vertebrae start working again, as he bends himself, trying to sit up. Where is he?

He blinks again and this time his vision is better. Contrast is back, although the colors are limited; theres a thing called blue that he's not seeing. He blinks hard, feels his eyes situate smoothly, wetly, in their sockets. He coughs, and something old and foul slides up his throat. He sits up and spits it onto the ground-it tastes like death-and it's dark and muddy, something congealed. He spits again and finds that his mouth is beginning to produce saliva, a sloppy string of it hanging from his lips. He clumsily licks the remains from his lips, even though it's repulsive. Death makes for a terrible, awful hangover, he thinks.

His vision is back, but practically useless. The room he's in is dusky and nothing about it makes sense, thin strips of light filtering in through a boarded up window. He's on the second floor, he realizes, in one of the spare bedrooms. He doesn't remember much of anything-how much time has passed?-but nothing that the world is showing him now is giving him any hints; or at least, not ones that indicate that anything good happened. He knows he's Billy Joe Cobra, he knows he's famous, and he knows he's dead.

"Fuck." he croaks, his voice cracking, moist under the surface. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve; something dried at the corner of his mouth smears away. He's sitting on the bed, legs swung over the side. He's been there for a while. When he looks down, he can see that he's made an indentation on the mattress, roughly human shaped, created by his weight. The legs and arms are bent at weird angles; that must be why his limbs hurt. Ache, really, like everything else. It's a bitch, being alive, he thinks.

The light is off in the room, and most of the lightweight furniture is gone. The window is nailed shut with boards, the only light source, spreading a warm, natural glow over the entire place. Billy doesn't dare stand up yet. He feels pins and needles now, like his whole body has been asleep, and he doesn't think his legs will support him. He's had hangovers kind of like this, and knows his limits. Had he been drinking? He doesn't remember how he died. It's all so surreal and overwhelming that it absolutely underwhelms him, leaving him vaguely numb and disappointed.

His eyes, vision returned, survey the room again. His eyebrows furrow, pulling the taut skin of his face into his first expression yet, which is sort of painful, when his eyes meet the door. It's shut, but not just shut; barely on its hinges, the doorknob locked but hanging open off the side of the door. It's fixed on the other side, where he cannot see, with thick rope. At the bottom of the door is dark brown smear. At first he thinks it's dirt or mud, but his gut recognizes it before his brain does. It's blood, thick and congealed and matted into the carpet. It stinks.

Suddenly, his stomach is in his throat. He tastes foul liquid and bile and, gripping the bed, leans over the side, abdomen convulsing as he heaves slick, dark liquid onto the carpet. His eyes water, and his mind reels, dizzy and disoriented and vaguely disgusted. He doesn't dare open his eyes and see whatever it was that just slid up his throat and onto the carpet; the sound it made was wet, but not like water. It sounded solid. He doesn't want to know what it is, because it tastes like…..

He doesn't want to think about it.

Spitting up the last of it, mind rejecting the texture of whatever it was between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, he leans back up, eyes still shut. He hiccups and it turns into another gag, but nothing comes up. He's all dry.

He's thrown up before, all the time, but never like that. He still doesn't want to open his eyes, but slowly, he does. The room is the same as it was a moment ago, not a dream, just a strange, obstinate reality.

Slowly, he lifts himself from the bed. His legs shake and his whole body seems to lurch, the floor dipping and swelling when he looks down at it. He blinks hard and forces himself not the faint, feet shuffling, the mere act of walking old and strange. One foot in front of the other, let the fall happen, now the other foot. Walking is a mental task now, and he has to think the process out, just as he has to remind himself to breath, although he doesn't think he needs to. When he reaches the front of the door, he carefully steps around the smear of blood, peeking through one of the chipped holes in the door-which looks like someone broke it down and put it back up again-to look out into the hallway. It's dark.

"H-hello?" he says, his voice a quiet rasp, barely audible. He clears it, slathers his mouth with spit, gets better control of his tongue. "Hello?" a bit louder this time, his jaw aching when he has to open it to project his voice.

"Is...is anyone out there?" he shouts this time, perfectly loud and clear, and is briefly proud of himself. He can't really think about any of the things happened to him, not yet; there's too many, each it's own disaster, and he's not ready yet. Right now, he just wants to find someone, anyone, to take care of him. He looks down and grips at the doorknob, which hangs uselessly from it's socket. It'll do him no good. He leans against the door, trying to push it open, but is too weak to even budge it. He starts to panic.

"C'mon, this isn't funny!" he's almost screaming now. He realizes, for the first time, how oppressively silent it is. Everything is silent. No birds, nothing. He whimpers, lip quivering, and his eyes dart around the room. He can't get out the window, he's on the second floor and it's boarded up. He's not sure what would even be out there, anyway, and it's an oddly terrifying thought when he examines it. What does he think is out there? What is he afraid of? What would make him think that whatever he's afraid of is out there? He doesn't know.

"Somebody-!" he's screaming, hands grappling with the door, when suddenly he hears footsteps, light but hurried, thundering down the hallway. He's both terrified and thankful; someone, maybe here to kill him, but _someone_. He can't be alone, he's lose his mind. He smiles for a split second before the person slams against the door. He yelps and jerks back; he can hear them breathing heavily against the door, the wrong kind of breathing, the angry kind, through clenched, bared teeth.

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up." the person hisses, low and worn, pressed closely against the door. "You shut the fuck up."

Billy scrambles, struggles not to fall, and steadies himself. If he were alive, his heart would be pounding. He breathes hard, out of instinct, and finds walking easier, his mind's functions coming back to him.

"Oh, thank God. You're here, whoever you are, please-"

"How are you alive?" they snarl.

"What?"

"Do I sound like I'm playing games? You were locked up in here. I thought you were one of them. You haven't had a way in or out in a month. You were dead. I made sure." The person seems to back away from the door.

Billy's mouth goes dry. Yeah, he guesses, this person, a guy he thinks, is right to be suspicious. If someone long dead got up and walked around in his presence, he'd be skittish too. Not to mention the blood everywhere. Whatever happened here, Billy would hazard a guess that it wasn't the most calming, therapeutic experience.

"I'm, I'm Billy Joe-"

"I know who you are." their voice goes softer, just a little. Then it's quiet, a long, pregnant pause taking up the whole room. "Am I really this lonely?" he hears the person mutter. "No, no I'm not. You aren't real." they continue, muttering to themselves. "No, you are real. Is this real?"

"This is real." Billy says, trying to keep his tone level. He puts his hands on the door, leaning close, trying to get a look at the person through the hole. "I know I probably sound crazy, but I really, really, just want to know what's going on." a breath escapes him, almost a sob. "One-one minute, I'm partying out by the pool, and then, I guess I died, but…" he pauses. "...here I am, anyway."

The silence is heavy and palpable. Billy's future depends on this guy, who is weighing his option on the other side of the door. Billy bites his lip and hopes against all hope, with more than his cold, dead heart.

"You don't sound nearly as crazy as you probably think." he hears the other person say. Billy exhales a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing when he hadn't realized they were tense. "I'm...I'm gonna do something stupid, and open this door. If you make one funny move, or any loud noise, I'll kill you." Billy swallows hard, wondering how it came to this. He's meant to be worshipped on stage, not threatened, but now he thinks it doesn't matter. This person clearly doesn't care who he is.

"Okay, okay, dude. You got it, brochacho, that's totally cool." he babbles. It's quiet again, but then he hears a hacking sound at the other side of the door, and the rope falls away to the floor. He breathes out and smiles; this is the first good thing to happen since he woke. The door swings open.

Billy's whole world stops.

"_Spencer?_"

The kid in front of him hardly looks like the kid who used to hang from his hip at family reunions. He's older, for one thing, in his late teens if Billy had to guess. But it's not just the physical difference, not just the strange scar on his cheek, his disheveled hair, the blood smeared on his shirt. It's his whole posture, demeanor, expression. He seems tense like a cat, eyes sharp, seeing forever. He seems _scared_. In one hand he has an axe, his arms tight with sinewy muscle, the other hand held into a tight, claw like shape. He looks like he's ready to bolt at any instant, but his eyes move quickly, sizing Billy up faster than Billy thought possible. He's still got those smart, dark brown eyes, and that strange, reddish brown mop of hair. Freckles mix with dirt, pink lips, white teeth.

"I can't believe this." Spencer says, slowly, his posture relaxing when Billy makes no move to hurt him. First he looks coldly skeptical, and then panicked, bemused, his eyes wide and glossy. His grip loosens dangerously on the axe, but he tightens it again. His eyes dart around, unable to focus for too long on anything, too overwhelmed by the whole to understand the parts. He takes a step back and Billy smiles, happy to see a familiar face, much less Spencer's. It's good to see him, or maybe it isn't. He doesn't look good.

"Yeah, I uh…sorry for scaring you." Billy says.

Spencer bites his lip. "You should be dead. You were dead when I got here."

"I think I still am." Billy shrugs. Spencer stares at him for a long, tense moment, and then cracks a wry, humorless, relieved smile.

"You always were really stupid." Billy would take offense, but he's too happy to just see Spencer.

The boy lets the axe sling to his side. He looks up at Billy, and smiles like he's been kept awake for a hundred years. It's unsettling.

"Thanks." he says-thanks for what?-and Billy barely registers the tears in his eyes before the axe hits the floor with a low thud, lodging in the carpet, and Spencer lunges forward. His arms hook around Billy's waist, and drag him into a warm hug. Billy's breath rushes out of him all at once when Spencer buries his nose in his chest, the boy's short, reddish brown hair mashing at his collarbone, strong arms crushing his ribcage. Calloused, hardened hands flex and curl at his back, digging in the flesh there. He feels the sob before he hears it, and realizes it isn't coming from him.

Spencer's warmth seeps into his body and he exhales, first euphoric but then heartbroken, as Spencer muffles a long, despairing wail in his chest. He throws his arms around the boy, the cry rattling in his ribcage, piercing his marrow. It's the worst thing he's ever heard, worse than a baby crying, worse than a sad dog's howl. It's a cry from a place he's never been, but for an instant it slips him toes first into the soul of a soldier, wounded and young, carrying more than his body can support. Spencer's whole weight shifts onto him, legs all but falling out from under him. Billy feels like crying, too, just from the proximity; it sounds like suffering, like loneliness, and it comes from deep, deep in the marrow of Spencer's body. It stains his shirt with blood, sweat, tears and snot, but he can't make himself care. His baby cousin, this little boy; he holds him tight, cupping the back of his head, muttering little nothings to him in ways he didn't think he was capable of. Billy was never good at caring about other people, but Spencer is different. It overcomes him in a tide of confused, aching sympathy.

Billy hushes him, but he doesn't stop crying. Everything is going into it, everything he has; its mindless and complete and terrifying, and Billy lets himself sink down until they're sitting, curled together on the floor. Billy lets himself lay in the congealed blood, lets Spencer smear snot and tears into his shirt, lets the boy cry harder than Billy has ever seen. The axe, lodged in the floor in the hall, sits still and stony. It's a fire axe, heavy and red and rusted with blood. Billy thumbs through Spencer's hair and kisses the crown of his head. It doesn't stop. Some impractical, but insightful part of Billy thinks it never will.

After a while, Spencer wears himself out. He's reduced to tiny, wet hiccups. It's getting dark, and Billy can barely see any more, but it hardly matters. The day is done. It's over, for now, except that it's not. Spencer still jumps at ever tiny sound, every heartbeat, every misplaced breath. Nothing feels safe. The place creaks with the night and Billy rocks his baby cousin back and forth on the floor in the blood.

"Sorry." Spencer croaks. Billy shakes his head. Whatever made Spencer cry like that, it must've meant something. People don't just cry like that. Even Billy knows. Spencer is limp and exhausted. Billy thinks of dragging him back over to the bed. He threw upon the floor over there, but everything seems gross, so he doesn't think it really matters. He supposes he's had worse.

"You wanna sleep?" Billy asks quietly. Spencer had muffled his crying, purposeful even when he lost control.

"Can't," Spencer says. "haven't in days."

Billy cracks a small, supportive smile that Spencer can't see. "Everyone sleeps better after a good cry." he stands, finding lost strength to pick Spencer up. He gently closes the door, holding Spencer, who steadies himself and wipes his eyes, only succeeding in smearing his tears with dirt and making it worse. His eyes are red and tired, swollen and wrought with some worn out, distant pain.

Billy guides him to the bed. Spencer lays down hesitantly, his eyes darting to the boarded up window every few seconds, looking at the door, looking at Billy, jumping when something in the house makes a sound. "I need the axe." Billy doesn't ask why, he just gets it. It's heavy-Spencer must be strong-and something about it makes Billy's head ache. The blood on it has to belong to someone. He doesn't ask.

Spencer makes him put it under the pillow. He rejects the idea at first, but Spencer won't give up on it, so he obeys, and lays down next to the boy. They lay on top of the covers-it's hot, probably summer anyway-and Spencer's breathing slows.

"It's okay." Billy says. He's dead, and everything is a mess, and he has no idea what's happening. Objectively, nothing is okay. "You're gonna be okay."

"That's a lie." Spencer says, but then he presses his warm body up to Billy's colder one, one with no heartbeat. Billy licks his lips and it's deafening in the silence. He curls his arms around Spencer. He's always been content to be ignorant, all through his life and career, so he supposes it won't hurt him to wait one more day to ask what's going on.

Spencer is asleep almost instantly, one hand on Billy's chest and the other clutching at the handle of the axe.

* * *

its probs obvious how this is gonna go lmao

actually gonna do a multichapter thing i guess since i have nothing better to do. im not a writer or anything its not even a thing i pursue or am good at so idk how well it. will go. haha.

m for future sex/violence stuff i guess? not sure yet

reviews would be lovely but its ok if u dont want to

uhhh thats it thanks bye ;v;


	2. Clean Water

Spencer is gone when Billy wakes up.

It's morning, so the room is illuminated. Billy's eyes adjust when he wakes, blinking sleep slowly from his eyes. everything feels sticky and distant. He slides his tongue around in his mouth and parts his lips, taking in his first breath of the day, before sitting up and slinging his legs over the side of the bed. He can't even smell the blood or vomit any more, which he's thankful for. He rubs sleep from his eyes and yawns, not ready for whatever is happening around him.

He looks around for Spencer. The door to the hallway is hanging open, so he walks out into the unknown, calmer than he expected. It's strange to be outside of that room again. His whole house is like a dark, humorless pun on what it once was. The hallways is dusky, and although most things are illuminated by windows, everything is dusty. Some rooms are locked or untouched, while others have doorknobs covered in dry, bloody handprints. Billy doesn't go into those rooms.

He makes his way downstairs. Everything in his house is disorientingly different; it looks like the place might've been looted, or maybe just torn apart. Where once there were lively parties, now there are only the remains of a life, one Billy can't remember completely. The chandelier hangs crookedly from the ceiling, its glint dulled by dust. He wonders if there's any water in the pool any more.

He wonders a lot of things. He wonders what happened, how he died, why all the lights are off, why there's no running water, why Spencer is here.

Why Spencer is here _alone_.

The downstairs windows are more thoroughly boarded up than the ones upstairs. Billy isn't even sure why the upstairs ones are that way. Some of them have chicken wire or metal grating over the boards, and some have bullet holes. Maybe that's why the upstairs windows were boarded up.

Billy finds his cousin sitting at his kitchen counter. It's fairly dark, but his eyes have adjusted. The room is dusty, the door to the patio boarded over but clearly openable, held in place by a large plank. Spencer is sitting at the table, axe propped against the leg of his chair, eating peaches out of a can with his bare fingers. He's staring blankly at the wall, eating slowly. His gaze is oddly heavy and meaningless, like he'd be looking at someone across the table except no one is there, just the wall. Billy almost doesn't disturb him. He notices for the first time that Spencer is wearing a black tank top and a pair of Billy's pants, rolled up at the ankles, too long and slightly baggy. His feet are clad is running shoes that have taken a beating, the soles peeling and stained with blood and dirt and other unmentionable things. The laces are tied so tight Billy thinks they might never come off. Spencer has sharp, freckled shoulders and strong arms, his fingers long like his lily arched neck. The light hits him oddly, and he looks so dusty that he almost glows.

Billy clears his throat. Spencer jumps, breath quick, eyes wide, before he sees that there's no threat, no new invasion, and sighs. He licks his lips clean of the peach juice and puts the can down. His fingers are glossy with the remains. He licks them clean, too.

"Good morning." he says. Billy isn't really sure what to say to him. He's totally different now than he was yesterday, no hint of his previous despair on his features.

"Yeah, good morning Spence." Billy mutters. "You got grub?"

"Yeah. Peaches." Spencer brandishes the can. The boy swallows thickly, licks his lips. The air is thick with what Billy doesn't know. For a tense moment, Spencer is silent and still. "It's bath day today, as of now." Spencer says suddenly, eyes tracing Billy before landing on the can again. Billy blinks, slightly startled by the change in the mood. It's jarringly normal compared to everything Billy has experienced thus far, a ray of human expression among bloody doorknobs and bullet holes. Spencer jiggles his knee, and his eyes sweep the room for the fifth time since they started talking. Billy wonders how long he's been doing that, and if it makes him tired.

"Okay." Billy says, and then pauses as Spencer slurps the last of the peach sugar water from the can with a wet gulp. It's gross in a way. "How are we gonna do that? I don't think there's running water." Billy wonders aloud. He's had running water all his life, and hasn't had to think on his own in years. It's strange for it to be just him and Spencer. It's an odd, frightening sort of liberation.

"Oh, I get water from the creek behind your house." Spencer licks his lips again, eyes darting to the boarded over door. "I boiled it yesterday, so it's clean. Cold," he cracks a wry smile "but clean."

Billy pauses. He'd forgotten about the creek. He had a pool, so there was never any reason to leave his yard in search of swimming areas, and the creek is only a few feet deep anyway, the water always sort of muddy and suspicious.

"It's not drinking safe. Up stream about a mile, there's a big burn pile of the bodies. The guts got in the water and came downstream. It looks a little like tar or oil, the burned fat." Spencer says. Billy grimaces. "It won't turn anybody, but it can make you sick as a dog if you don't boil it." Spencer throws the can of peaches over his shoulder, and it lands with a clink in the trash can, which looks almost full. Billy's kitchen isn't an especially large room in the house, the island table functioning both as an eating area and a counter top. Billy never really cooked anything, so it didn't need to be big. He never mixed his own drinks, either, which was probably stupid.

"So," Spencer sits up, his chair scooting back with a wail against the floor. "we're going up stairs for a bath. I need it, you need it." he says, walking out of the kitchen and through another room to the stairwell. Billy just follows his lead.

"What happens after that?" Billy asks.

Spencer sighs. "Well, then I give you the rundown of the place, set a few rules. I need to get you acclimated to this as quick as possible, I don't want deadweight." Spencer snorts. "Though you kinda already are, all things considered." Billy doesn't say anything about how this is his house and they should be his rules, even though he wants to. He supposes he's just grasping for straws. He's never especially wanted control of his own life until now, but it seems to matter. He feels strangely optimistic.

"Come on." Spencer flashes him a short, tempered smile. "Lets go."

Billy follows Spencer's swaying back up the stairs, watching him from behind. He seemed so broken yesterday, wailing like a struck dog, but now his shoulders seem not small and weak but wide and strong. His hands are brass knuckles, his collarbone a breastplate. He looks older than he is, Billy's eyes tracing the bruise on his shoulder, wondering how he got it. His steps are light and quiet, and although Billy can't see his face, he knows he's checking all windows and doors and they pass them.

Once they get up stairs, Billy follows Spencer into his own bathroom. It's not the main one, just a small bathroom in a guest bedroom, but there are buckets of water by the door, so he supposes its for proximity's sake. There aren't any bedrooms on the first floor, after all; he winces, wondering how Spencer managed to get the buckets from the creep to the house and then up the stairs. They look heavy. There's a crowbar by the door, the metal hook teeth of it caked with blood, but Billy doesn't say anything about that, either.

"Get the water, you're going in first." Spencer says, sitting on the toilet lid. Billy stops, but then nods, walking over to the buckets and lifting one. They're the large kind, used for carrying pool chemicals. Spencer must've gotten them from the garage. Billy carries one, with difficulty, into the bathroom, setting it down with a thud and exhaling, his newly awakened body creaking with the effort, muscles sliding. It feels strange, unlike simply walking, like all the sinews of his muscular structure are slipping into place. He shivers, and Spencer stands up.

"You want me to help?" he asks, unblinking. Billy stares at him for a second, and then grins.

"You wanna see my-"

"Shut up." Spencer slaps a hand over Billy's face, the full palm. It's oddly warm on Billy's cold cheeks, but he can see Spencer's mouth curl into a odd, quirking smile through the gaps between his fingers. He smiles, too.

Spencer does stay, though. He sits back down on the toilet lid, and Billy slips his shirt off. He feels safe with Spencer there, oddly enough. It's a strangely nostalgic experience to look at Spencer, like seeing a corpse. When Billy's mind thinks the word 'Spencer,' it is not the boy in front of him who appears. it's the bright faced child on new years eve, glass of non alcoholic champagne in his hand and his first girlfriend at his side. He's warm and smart and funny, with the brightest smile Billy has ever seen. He's a cousin Billy could be proud of, a family member who didn't reject him. Looking at the boy now is like looking into a casket; real, and yet not. It's like he's been airbrushed into something resembling his former self, replacing the precious with the empty. It's like looking at a dead man.

Billy gets into the tub, stark naked but oddly comfortable, and Spencer grimaces, dipping a washcloth into the bucket of water.

"You're lucky I'm not squeamish." Spencer says shortly, and Billy looks down. He admits, he's been in better shape. He quickly looks up again, not wanting to even see himself; his skin is a sickly pale yellow, greenish at his joins where the skin is thin, blotchy purple at his veins. It's almost white in places, like it's devoid of blood. His skin sounds odd and foreign when it comes in contact with itself, like sandpaper, and seems reluctant to hold or absorb moisture, though it doesn't feel dry. He's covered in a thin film, some dust, some sweat, accumulating in foul residue in some places. He gags low in this throat, and looks at Spencer, who, to his surprise, smiles.

It's a soft, tiny smile, unlike the one from earlier, laced with a strange compassion. The washcloth makes a distinct sound as it dribbles cold creek water on the floor. It's almost deafening compared to the silence between them when Spencer runs it over his face. He isn't gentle, his palm pushing the flesh, but he's not rough, either. Billy hears something chip off of him and fall into the hollow of the tub, and winces.

"Yeah, I know." Spencer says, running the cloth over Billy's ear. "It's not easy. But nothing is going to be easy from now on." Billy looks down again and watches the now muddy water run tracks down his chest, pooling in dark puddles at the floor of the tub, leaving clean flesh in it's wake. He hadn't known he was this dirty; he supposes there were more pressing things on his mind. He sees the color of the water though. On his face, it was blood. Dried, chipping away, but blood no less. He licks his lips and tastes foul copper.

He lets Spencer wash his chest but then takes the rag from him, deciding for the first time in his life that it's enough pampering, that he'd like a little dignity. Spencer just nods and strips his own shirt of, producing another wash sponge and dipping it into the bucket. Billy watches him from the corner of his eye as he cleans his face. Billy realizes, with half amusement, that a third of his freckles were flecks of dirt and blood. He's still dotted with them, over his shoulders and down his chest, which is sinewy and strong. His bellybutton is an innie. Billy is glad for that, for lack of anything else to be glad about.

It feels strange, but good to be clean. It takes him time, and when he's done a trail of muddied, filthy water leads to the drain. The washcloth feels good on his skin, and even just the simple contact is nice, like his whole body is waking up again, touched and moved over, kneaded to life like clay. The water is cold, but it doesn't bother him.

Water dribbles from Spencer's lip onto the floor. He's leaning forward, elbows on his knees, wrists crossed in front of him. His head hangs down, face limp and expressionless. Billy shivers, and feels goosebumps erupt on his skin, to his surprise. If Spencer is breathing it's too quiet and shallow to hear. But then his head snaps up and he's alert all over again. Billy realizes, in a wash of piercing pity, that he fell asleep. He fell asleep, just for an instant, sitting there.

"Okay, we're done. I'll get you a towel." Spencer says, standing up and crossing the room. Billy watches him walk. There's a bruise on his hip in a strange shape that Billy recognizes as a human hand. His heart sinks.

Spencer brings him the towel, throwing it unceremoniously over his head. It doesn't smell especially clean, but it's clean enough so Billy dries himself. Spencer takes it after him, and they get dressed in silence.

"Alright, I suppose now you get the rundown." Spencer says as they walk back downstairs, tidied up. Billy nods enthusiastically from behind him, though he can't see it. He feels like he needs a rundown, something to ground him. Rules would be nice, he thinks, for the first time in a long time.

"For starters, I guess, don't ever go outside, at least not without telling me. Your yard is fenced in, but the gate is a weak spot. Don't go out if you don't have to, and if you do have to, ask me to go with you." he says, rattling off things on his fingertips. "Food and water are valuable. Don't waste them." Another finger. "If anything spoils, throw it out immediately. If anything in the house gets mold, get rid of it immediately. Illness here can be fatal. There are no doctors."

They reach the bottom of the stairs and Billy watches Spencer walk through his living room and back into the kitchen, returning with his axe once more in tow.

"No loud noises or bright lights; they like those." he approaches Billy, eyes trained on him. Billy swallows. "And don't, whatever you do, ever start any fires. Ever. We do that on the balcony, which is stone, where it's less likely to burn our shit down, but it can be seen from a distance. Don't do it. That's my job. If we burn this place, we burn with it." he says. Billy shrugs weakly and nods, quirking a half hearted smile. "It attracts them. People, and the others." Spencer mutters. "I'm not sure which is worse."

Spencer gives him a tour of the place, though it is limited. He doesn't visit some rooms, either because they're locked or simply on what Billy assumes is a whim. He gives Billy the crowbar from upstairs and tells him to clean it and keep it on him; to avoid hitting himself with it. He shows him where he's keeping basic medical supplies, bandages and peroxide, in a cabinet in the kitchen for easy access. Billy follows him in a daze; it's strange to get the rundown of his own home, but the conditions are so different from what they once were. The metal of the crowbar in his hand makes him feel heavy and sick. Spencer tells him, with a slow, deliberate intention, that they don't have any guns. Billy thinks it means something extra, the way Spencer blinks, but doesn't ask about it. _No guns_.

"It's your first day here." Spencer says with a small smile once they windthe tour to a close. "It's important that you understand everything." Spencer puts a hand on his back, a warm gesture, but Billy's blood runs cold. The look in Spencer's eyes is worryingly sympathetic and tender, as the hand on his back presses gently. They're in the kitchen, but this door, the one that leads to the patio and pool at the back of the house, isn't completely barred up. Spencer pushes him to it and lifts a heavy plank from it. It's open. Billy realizes that this is the first time he's seen an open door since he woke up.

Spencer looks at him over his shoulder, eyes frighteningly soft. Billy swallows.

"I thought you said not to go outside." He says.

"I want you to understand." Spencer replies. There's something terrifying in his voice, the way his grip tightens around the axe, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "And the only way is all at once," he pulls together a weak smile "like ripping off a band-aid."

Spencer puts a calloused, rough hand on the door and, with his weight, pushes it open.

The patio is splattered with blood. Air wafts in, and Billy immediately gags; it's grotesque, reeking of flesh and rot. The raw sunlight is almost blinding and he squints as Spencer leads him onto the patio, looking out onto the pool. For an instant, Billy's mind supplements a mirage of the enormous concrete basin being as it was, clean and full of crystal clear water. For an instant, his mind won't let him see what the sliding, dark dread in his stomach knows is there.

All of his breath rushes out of him. The pool is full of bodies.

The water has been drained. Blood, long, dark tracks of it, lead to the pile, catching on the spaces between the tiles and lining out a checkerboard of dark red. His vision blurs and comes back into focus. It's positively full, full with bodies in a way Billy's mind can't understand. He's seen things full, cups, trucks, baseball mitts; but not this, not full of this. His breath comes in quick, painful gulps of foul air. He's suffocating standing still, and feels Spencer's hand reach out, warm, human fingers curling around his own. The gesture of support does little to stop the oncoming hurdle of fantastic, simple horror.

He hears the flies but can't see them. Maggots turn in the corpses like weaving thread, sliding among greasy, grey, rotten meat. Some of the corpses are burned, bubbling black fat curling at their lips, which peel back over yellow, bloodstained teeth. All of their heads are snapped open or missing completely, dark brain matter against the bodies of their brothers and sisters, snagged in matted hair, white flecks of skull fragments strewn about. One, sprouting from under a large pile like a tulip in spring, has its guts hanging from its mouth, throat full and bloated with them, glossy and crusted together like an art project. Another, a woman with child, her belly pulled open, the back of her head hanging from her body by her own bloody, matted hair. Another, a police officer, another, a girl scout, another, wearing nothing but socks. Another, another, another. If Billy's heart could beat it would be racing, his breath coming in rasping, staggering sobs. The blood on the tiles, the blood on the bodies, the blood on Spencer's axe. Billy feels lightweight. He can't close his eyes, afraid the nightmare will be printed on the inside of his eyelids.

He doesn't hear himself start screaming, just feels Spencer's hand clap, with bruising force, over his open mouth as something burns in his lungs and throat, sliding down his cheeks. Images, scenarios, nightmares flash before his eyes, his mind rushing frantically to explain what it's seeing, his cold, dead heart _breaking_. He hears Spencer's voice, feels himself being held tight, hand over his mouth, muffling the sound, and his world bleeds black at the edges, like worms or lace. He loses consciousness.

* * *

many days later i find the time to do thing! im applying to college rn so busy busy (gonna graduate from highschool soon like a proper adult)

hgghg idk if this chapter is any good? but i guess ive committed to making this a thing now so

also thanks to the peeps who reviewed for saying nice things even tho i dont deserve it uvu makes me smile

this is probably gonna continue in Billy's pOV i guess 5ever unless i decide it wont in which case it wont lmAO

this ones kinda gross whoops


	3. Keeping Time

When Billy wakes, he thinks, just for an instant, that he's dead again. His eyes snap open but see nothing, nothing but inky, infinite darkness like the space between stars. The complete dark is such a rare thing in his life that it seems unnatural; light pollution in cities, lava lamps, starlight, all these things robbed him of darkness. And yet now it's here, oppressive and impenetrable. His breath quickens, just for an instant, his eyes, with no images to process, flashing back to corpses-blood: one, two, brain: three, four, there are so many, too many-that move behind his eyelids. He gasps, trying to blink them away, but the darkness behind his eyelids is no different from the darkness outside of them, serving as a perfect, simple mirror. He sees himself truly for the first time since he woke, in that mirror, just a glimpse. He's dead, many people are dead, there is no hope for normal life. The realization is crushing in a way Billy didn't even know existed.

He almost shouts in alarm when he feels a warm hand on his shoulder, but a soft coo of Spencer's voice alleviates his doubts. Relief washes over him. It's silly, for a grown man to be afraid of the dark, but it's not a mirror he wants to look into, not any more. He doesn't want clarity. He wants Spencer to curl up next to him and be his baby cousin again. He grabs the boy's slim wrist in his hand and grips it, perhaps too tight.

"Why did you do that to me?" Billy says. They're the first words out of his mouth before he can stop them. At first he regrets it, but then doesn't, feeling that he deserves to know. Part of him understands, but another part of him, scared and wounded, wants to know why Spencer would intentionally hurt him like that. Spencer's fingers just keep touching him, curling on his shoulder like he's scratching the back of a cat.

"Do you think I _wanted_ to?" Spencer replies, his voice hard at first, riddled with something old and tired. "I was the one who had to drag them all there, keep them from littering the yard. I was the one who made that grave. Did you think it was easy for me? I tried to burn them, you know, but the smoke…it attracted things." then he just sighs, and his voice goes gentle and calm again. Billy waits with quiet anticipation, expecting an answer.

"You had to know." Spencer finally says. "You had to know and you had to know fast. Trust me." Billy slowly releases Spencer's wrist, and sighs in a strange, nostalgic satisfaction as Spencer slides it across his chest. It seems to sink into his pores, the nurturing touch, a relief like being in his mother's arms, tying him to the real world. It's preparing him for whatever news Spencer is about to deliver. "If I hadn't shown you, and just told you…" Spencer gulps. "...you would've told me I was crazy. You would've denied it, then you would've accused me of lying, maybe gotten violent." his finger twitches against Billy's chest, and Billy holds his breath. "Then you would've started wailing. you would've gone outside, seen it, and begun to cry. You would have blamed me, or yourself, maybe. You would've leapt the fence to look for help, and you would've been killed. If not, you'd hole yourself up and lose it. Some of them just go crazy." Billy realizes, a little too late, that Spencer isn't even talking about him. "Sometimes they never make it out of the starting gate."

He places his hand over Spencer's as it stills in the center of his chest. He can feel the hard knuckles, the soft veins and flesh, the smoothness of fingernails. It's a human hand belonging to a human companion. Billy holds it like treasure.

"It's night out right now. I figured I'd keep watch." Spencer says. He holds something behind his teeth, something threatening to bubble up in his throat and spill out. It sits on his tongue like a stone, so hard Billy can feel it in the air.

Billy knows Spencer needs sleep. He knows that it isn't his fault, that he didn't wish this into existence. His mind searches for someone to blame, for some reason, but he can't find one. He waits in silence another moment, and then, without prompt, Spencer starts speaking again.

"It started about a year ago. Ten months, eight days, to be exact. I've been counting." Spencer says. His voice is painfully shaky. Billy strokes his hand with his thumb, and waits for everything to pour out. The darkness in cleansing, in a way. Spencer doesn't want anyone to see him cry, not again.

"At first, nobody knew anything. It was kept under wraps. A gag order was issued in my town, and then a town after that, and a town after that. And then the radio broadcasts started." Spencer says. He breathes in, and then out again, stalling himself. "They weren't supposed to get out. Nobody was supposed to know. But they did. At first they were just…unbelievable, you know? The dead are walking, they'd say, but no one believed them. A few people packed up after a particular broadcast aired…" he pauses. "...have you ever heard it before? The sound of someone being eaten alive, I mean."

Billy can't say anything. He doesn't know what it sounds like.

"Anyway, after that we were all told not to call anyone or go anywhere...there were soldiers in the streets, and people were getting scared. But we still didn't believe it, you know? We thought maybe there had been a bomb threat or something, _anything_ but the truth, really." Billy feels Spencer shrug. "And then they were on us. Suddenly, so fast it was paralyzing. The sirens went off only an instant before we were flooded with them. The soldiers died in the streets like civilians." he swallows. "We left. We left in a big fucking hurry, mowed down a couple people in the van, I think. We came out here to find you, but by the time we got here, you were already…" he stops. The air is hard and thick.

Billy thinks. His mind churns.

_We_.

Spencer wasn't alone, not when he got here.

"Who was with you?" Billy finally asks, after waiting for a long moment in complete darkness. He feels Spencer's hand flex and then release, flex and release. He can feel the quick, panicked pulse in the boy's wrist.

"My Mom and Dad. My sister, Jessica." Spencer rasps.

Billy holds him in silence for a long, tense moment.

"It's alright, Spence." Billy says into the quiet, sacred darkness. He doesn't know what else to say. He doesn't know how to tell a boy who hasn't had time to grieve his family to keep trying. He doesn't know how he can encourage Spencer when the odds his cousin faces are of a magnitude that Billy can't even fathom.

Billy's father died on a mountain of corporate wealth, far away and cold, when Billy was six. He taught Billy to want what he couldn't have, with mistresses and business, and to take what he couldn't get, with money and power. His mother left him when he was fourteen. The Wrights, Billy thinks, are gone. But there are types of gone to the world. They aren't gone like Billy's mother and father, they're gone in another way completely. Gone in a nasty, horrible, terrifying way. Billy doesn't ask what happened, partly because a strange, nostalgic, human part of him loved the Wright family, and he'll miss them, too.

He grips Spencer's hand and feels the boy lay down next to him, curling into his side, warm and alive and shaking; probably crying. Crying silently in the complete, utter dark.

"I was so happy when I found you up here, alive. Even if you're only like...half alive." Spencer whispers into his side, voice shaky and wet. "You don't know what it's like. I was alone here for so long. I counted the days, Billy. In scratches on the walls." he sniffs. "And...I loved you, alright? I do love you, you're my friend...it was so hard to come up here and find you dead. To think that you might get up again and try to kill me. To wall you away when I…" Billy pulls an arm around him. "But then you were here, and I know I'm not good at showing it, I've been around this block before, but...I thanked the fucking stars you were alive. I want you to know how much I don't want you to die."

Billy blinks tears from his eyes and turns, kissing the crown of Spencer's head. Spencer is young and wounded and exhausted to his very bones. Billy knows a few things about loneliness, about filling in the gaps and trying not to lose yourself in them.

"I'll keep watch tonight." Billy says after a moment of just stroking Spencer's hair. He feels Spencer adjust nervously, twisting his legs.

"What?" he croaks. Billy closes his eyes, sighs.

"That's why you aren't sleeping, right? You watch everything, the doors and windows, day and night. So I'll do it tonight. Cry yourself to sleep, and rest and as long as you want to. I'll take care of it tonight, alright, Spencelvania?" he pushes his smile into the top of Spencer's head so the boy can feel it. He feels Spencer's hand close in the center of his chest the way a baby's fist curls. Billy's runs his thumb, feels with sensory depraved sensitivity the slick slice of the scar on Spencer's cheek. He doesn't feel scared of the dark any more.

He hears Spencer hiccup a sighing, nervous breath. It seems to rattle up out of his ribs, shaking from the density of his emotion. Spencer's thumb rubs circles on Billy's chest, either a nervous habit or a comforting gesture.

"And thanks, too. For telling me, I mean." Billy knows it wasn't easy. He might have nightmares if he sleeps, anyway, so keeping watch doesn't sound hard.

"Just….okay. okay, yeah, I need to be in better shape." Spencer sighs. "I need rest. Go up to the roof and just….make sure nothing breaks the perimeter. Wake me if anything even gets close." Spencer's voice teeters between grateful and terrified, his voice worn by sadness after his first attempt at mourning his family. He's just a kid, Billy thinks. Billy himself isn't much more, twenty five and ten years less mature, but he knows he's the adult here, that for once he has to throw away his pop star hat and take on a new responsibility. This is his baby cousin laying on the bed, crying and begging and mourning. The baby cousin he gave piggyback rides to. The baby cousin who played with Wendy in a kiddie pool on the fourth of July. The baby cousin who dared him to eat a cricket for a nickel. He smiles, and wonders what happened to get them from there to here. He wonders how they both got so far from where they started.

"I wish I could sleep here with you." Billy murmurs into Spencer's hair.

"I wish that, too." Spencer says. It's upsettingly genuine, and strange in contrast to his usual demeanor. He flip flops between being the stoic adult and the frightened child, forced to grow up in a manner of months. Billy never really grew up, so he doesn't totally understand, but he does sympathize.

They stay together for another moment as the air clears in the darkness, Spencer's soft cries ebbing into slow, even breaths against Billy's side. He has to get up and go take on the watch in a moment, he knows, but he doesn't want to leave until Spencer is asleep. It just feels wrong.

"You know, Billy…" Spencer murmurs softly, voice hoarse and on the verge of sleep. "...I had this big, stupid crush on you when I was a kid." Spencer scoffs and Billy holds him tight. "I kinda idolized you." hiss body is so warm and soft, his voice barely audible. He's finally calm. "I just thought you should know that." and then he's asleep. Billy wonders why Spencer told him that, and why he waited so long.

Billy checks him, poking his side, but when it elicits no response he takes it as a sign that Spencer is out cold. He carefully, with a sore back, slips out of the boy's grasp and onto his feet, before slowly, carefully stumbling his way to the door frame. It's his house so he knows where everything is, but he doesn't want to make noise falling down and wake Spencer up after getting him to sleep had been such an ordeal.

Billy makes his way to the roof, checking what he can see along the way, silvery moonlight slipping between the cracks in the boarded up windows, filtering in and illuminating bright specks of dust. When he finally makes it to the roof, the glow of the moon alarms him. He can see again for the first time in the night, the tiny, white pinpricks of light littering the black sky above like spotlights. The light pollution from the city can still be seen over the horizon, but it's not enough to dilute the larger mass of the night sky, which consumes everything. There are no clouds, and although it's a little chilly, Billy doesn't feel uncomfortable. It's incredibly freeing to see again, to have confirmation that he exists. He sits down and stares out into the dark, watching the dark, sparsely wooded area behind his house carefully. He breathes easy, out of the stuffy house that reeks of blood and rot. Although the breeze still carries death, he can hardly detect it, and the intensity isn't like what it was near the pool, where it was so thick and dense he could taste it in the back of his throat when he breathed. He stares up into the silvery half-orb of the moon and wonders who he is now.

He's dead. That's a whole ordeal to come to terms with, but he hasn't even had time to consider it. He guesses there were simply more important things at hand, but when he slides a hand up over his breastbone he find that no, his heart isn't beating. He's dead like the things stacked in the pool. There are no more parties, no more concerts, no more of the things that made him who he was. He's left with the little piece of himself he thought he left behind when he gave up everything to become famous, to travel the globe, to be adored. He's always craved adoration and attention, so he supposes at least that part of him is the same, but he's a stranger to himself. Who is the Billy who got left behind, his own skeleton? Take away the fame, what is he?

Billy sighs and looks down. The yard is barely lit with moonlight, but with his adjusted eyes he can see a silvery reflection of his own hands in front of him. He likes it better in the light, where he has a sense of space, of existence. It was a worrying dark, in there with Spencer. Billy smiles at the thought, curls his fingers together, feels his still heart go hard, but warm. He has to protect Spencer; _that's_ who he is. He's never felt responsible for anyone other than himself, but if there was one person to whom his loyalty was never broken it was his little cousin. Cousin with a crush, cousin with braces, cousin who cared too much and was too shy for the debate team in high school. Billy wonders how old Spencer is now; seventeen, eighteen?

Billy realizes, belatedly, that he hasn't eaten since he woke up alive. He isn't hungry, and chalks it up to being dead.

The night presses with agonizing slowness. Time moves differently now that he's so alone. He suddenly wishes Spencer was up, but then thinks better of it. He curls his knees up to his chin and sits there, unable to conserve heat with his dead body. It's a strange, bone tingling chill; not coldness, not yet, but crisp and clean and almost uncomfortable. He's not scared, sitting up there. It's like the world below him is fake, like he's above it all, which is a familiar feeling. It's an addictive feeling, he knows. He's been there.

But then he hears something over the sound of the breeze and the house noises. It's a low rustling at first, far away and quiet, but his hearing has adjusted to the silence and his nerves are tense, so he picks it up instantly. He snaps his gaze around-is it Spencer? No, that's stupid, why would he be up-but doesn't see anything at first. Only the darkness surrounds him, in the company of the moon, waiting for morning. He lets the time pass by, slowly allowing his thoughts settle like dust. It's peaceful, a moment not reflecting something he doesn't want to see.

Then he hears it again. Low, gurgling, and frighteningly human. He looks around, scanning the fences for…for whatever Spencer was telling him to look for. He focuses, tries to hear it again. he stops his breathing, the only sounds he makes the wet sounds of his inner body, and he hears it. A long, low, drawn out moan that evolves into a distressed whine, like a wounded, tired dog, but human. There's something innately bone chilling about it, something that seeps into his very marrow. It's an unnatural sound, one a human doesn't voluntarily make, one that couldn't be mistaken for ordinary. It sounds _wrong_.

Just over the fence, in the clearing before the brush starts, he sees a human shape, barely illuminated and sifting among the trees. Something about its gate is..._off_. Billy doesn't know what it is, but it triggers a strange, innate fear of him, like an animal missing a leg, or something running toward him. He makes himself still; he's up high, but in clear view from that distance. It could turn its head and see him. He doesn't know why the notion is so horrifying, why he's so afraid to be seen. He wishes he had blankets to pull over his head. Suddenly the night is not inviting, but an endless number of places for things to be hiding. His eyes are trained on the human shape, which shuffles slowly toward the fence. Billy sucks his lower lip into his mouth and chews it, watching in transfixed, childlike horror.

It walks out from under the shadow of the fence, shambling backward in the moonlight, and he sees just barely enough. It has a face, a human face, one with a nose and eyes and skin, though it is covered with something dark. It's a face, but it is not a pretty face, as its jaw is gone, letting its tongue hang, long and thick and heavy like a wet rag, from the hole leading to its dark throat. He sees just barely enough to fill him with dread and stupefied wonder.

Part of him hadn't believed Spencer, he realizes. He hadn't thought it was real, that the dead walked; who would believe that? He had been there, seen the bodies, heard the story, and he still hadn't believed it. Something clicks and breaks in his brain like a switch and, with a bolt of terrified energy, he gets up, afraid to be seen but too scared to stay still, and sprints back inside. Once back in his safe place he just stands, happy to be in the blinding dark again, and doesn't breathe. The feeling of being watched doesn't leave him, no matter where he goes. He feels watched by a dark hole, from every place outside of him.

* * *

this one felt kinda gross but spencer needs to start talking and billy needs to figure out that shits serious

third chapter in, a zombie finally appears! for like ten seconds jesus chri st

spencers totally gonna have to fight it tho lmao


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